


the solitary place shall be glad for them

by reclamation



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2019-09-30 18:48:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17229278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reclamation/pseuds/reclamation
Summary: During those first months at the Petit-Picpus convent, Valjean tends to the garden while thinking about Faverolles and Toulon.





	the solitary place shall be glad for them

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Isaiah 35:1.
> 
> Re-posting some old deleted works. Originally posted for [Les Mis Trick or Treat 2014](archiveofourown.org/collections/lmtrickortreat).

They are bent over in the garden together, two old men who now wear matching bells at the knee along with matching names. Both are necessities—the bells dictated by the Reverend Mother to warn the women and girls of the presence of men and the name 'Ultime Fauchelevent' a gift to explain Valjean’s unexpected appearance at the convent.

Valjean bears both with gratitude.

“You are as knowledgeable about plants as I remember,” Fauchelevent says, and it is the closest he has come to a question since Valjean and Cosette arrived some months ago.

Valjean nods in answer, gently cupping the petals of a rose out of the path of his shears so that he can remove a sickly branch below. He studies the young flower in his hand, which is beginning to unfurl into a bright pink hue. With the diseased portion of the plant removed, it will continue to blossom and grow until it reaches its full potential. Cosette will enjoy seeing the roses mature, he thinks. It takes very little to make her smile.

When Valjean looks up, he finds Fauchelevent studying him in turn. Though he ducks his head back to the rose bush, Valjean can feel the mild weight of that gaze upon him, carefully split between him and their work. Fauchelevent’s unobtrusive curiosity is not a new feeling. These past months, Valjean has not invited questions; he does not plan to begin to now. There are too many things he cannot account for, mutually felt gratitude aside. He hopes Fauchelevent will be content to leave the mystery in peace.

Fauchelevent subsides, with a sound that would be a sigh if it were not companionable. He says, “It is nearly recess. You should wash or the sisters will scold Cosette for muddying her clothes. I will work a little longer yet.”

It is another concession, for it would have been impossible for Fauchelevent to fail to notice that Valjean refuses to bare his wrists or back if the other man is present. Propriety and shyness can only explain so much while sharing such small living quarters. Again, Valjean’s entire being is awash in gratitude. He murmurs his thanks, clasping Fauchelevent’s shoulder as a true brother might, and goes inside to clean the dirt from his face and hands.

The water is still set out in the basin from that morning. Comfortable in the certainty that he will not be interrupted, Valjean undoes his shirt at the throat, and then carefully rolls his sleeves to his elbow to avoid smearing himself further with dirt.

The familial touch and his soil-stained hands send his mind to Faverolles. Many days in that past life, when he was nothing more than Jean Valjean and a tree-pruner, his hands looked as they do now; the morning has left his nails encrusted and stubborn lines of soil cling into the deepest lines of his fingers and knuckles. It has even ventured up his shirtsleeves to cling in the deep ridges of the scars at his wrists. Valjean scrubs them fiercely in the cool water. Before long, even the most reticent of the dirt is removed.

The scars, of course, remain.

It is fitting, he thinks. The thought is not bitter, merely honest. The number he was forced to bear rings clearly in his ears unsaid, whereas Jean of Faverolles seems very distant now. The trials and experiences of that time may as well have happened to another man.

Though the memories are hazy, he recalls Jeanne flanked by seven hungry faces, the desperate search for work when the season shifted, how Jeanne would dip her fingers unapologetically into his stew as he was bent over it so that the best morsels could disappear into the mouths of famished children. He remembers those little beggars swindling a neighboring farmer out of milk regularly. Jeanne likely only figured out their ploy once Valjean could no longer pay the woman for what they took because he had been put in chains.

There, closer to his thoughts always: Toulon and all its trappings. The specter of those heavy bonds, the chains of Toulon, weigh his hands a moment, and he nearly topples the basin as he fumbles with their phantoms.

The place can never be fully scoured from his body or his soul, though—with God’s guidance—he tries.

Toulon reminds him that the soul too easily absorbs those attitudes and sentiments that surround it. Not unlike the rose blossom with the deadened limb, hatred and despair, if allowed to spread, will take the remaining good until all is equally lifeless. Through Toulon, he knows that the human heart can be so fully excised that there only remains a ragged mark where it once beat. Can a heart ever return to wholeness after it becomes nothing more than a scar? Even his years as Madeleine had not fully healed that old wound.

Valjean frowns at the thought, rubbing at his clean fingers to dry them.

The day before, he had gotten lost in his morning’s work before Cosette came running to the garden to find him. Before he had a chance to do anything more than brush the worst of the dirt onto his trousers, she had flung herself unthinkingly into his arms for an embrace, already eagerly chattering about her day. He, also without thought, had caught her and settled her on his knee, listening to her story intently. It was only later that he heard through Fauchelevent that Cosette had been chided for the handprints he had left upon her uniform.

Valjean fears, despite what he’s learned of forgiveness and God’s love, that the heart of a convict is like that instance. He wonders if, no matter how he cleanses his soul with prayer and good intentions, he will still leave Cosette worse for wear.

How can he not, when he knows the tools of hatred intimately? He would sooner recognize the guard’s cudgel than if Fauchelevent returned his fraternal gesture. He would sooner know the rack, the double chain, or the assigned numbers that overwhelmed his own given name. It still shocks Valjean to the core each time Cosette insists on holding his hand or kissing his cheek. He would be less startled by Javert's irons, an ever present threat, around his wrists once more—

Forcefully, he quells the thought.

“My brother,” Fauchelevent calls from outside the door, somewhat wryly. “I can already hear your girl calling for her papa, you will want to hurry.”

Just weeks ago, Cosette would barely make a noise, so scared was she of misstepping. Neither Valjean or Fauchelevent will begrudge her this newfound confidence, even if it only surfaces in Valjean’s presence. A smile begins to tug at the corner of his lips.

“I am coming,” he answers, and his voice sounds pleased to his own ears.

He puts his collar and sleeves to rights and steps outside again in time to meet Cosette. She is flushed with delight upon seeing him; he cannot help but answer in kind.

“Would you like to look at the roses today, Cosette? They have begun to bloom.”

She smiles, taking his large hand into her tiny one, “Oh! Please, Papa. Can we?”

Valjean doesn’t fret further that day. They are safe. They are in a place shrouded in silence, simplicity, and joy. He will keep his scars hidden so those old ways will not trouble them here, and his heart will instead be free to learn more gentle paths.


End file.
